


What's Another Night on Mars?

by bean_me_up



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: A Tiny Juniper Tree, Autoshop Improvement, Friendship, Isobel Evans and her Pinterest board are a Force to be reckoned with, Mentions of Alex/Forrest and Kyle/Steph but they are Not Together, Michael Guerin Week 2020, Michael deserves good things and healthy relationships, Music!, Painting, Sanders Auto gets a little TLC, Tags will be updated as they become relevant but for the most part this is it, pod squad bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:00:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bean_me_up/pseuds/bean_me_up
Summary: Sanders had given him a job, a safe place to sleep when he needed it, even the truck that had been his home and lifeline for so long.  And now, he's given Michael the autoshop.  Granted, it was an upon-Sanders'-death-or-retirement kind of thing, and Michael's pretty sure Sanders is too damn stubborn to do either of those things, but still.  Sanders Auto, the one physical place in Roswell he could ever even consider something like home, was going to be his one day.He opens to a fresh page, smooths it out, and starts sketching, scribbling notes in the margin as the thoughts occur to him.  He's got $3472 to give the old auto shop a new life.___For Michael Guerin Week 2020 <3
Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Isabel Evans & Michael Guerin, Maria DeLuca & Michael Guerin, Maria DeLuca & Michael Guerin & Alex Manes, Michael Guerin & Kyle Valenti, Michael Guerin & Rosa Ortecho, Michael Guerin & Walt Sanders, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 17
Kudos: 65





	1. Anywhere is Home

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be publishing a new chapter everyday for Michael Guerin Week.  
> This is Day One: Favorite Michael Dynamic, "You don't have to stay"

In the many years that Michael has known him, Sanders has always been a man of few words. Gruff greetings, barked instructions, no patience for small talk or chit-chat of any sort. He'd taught him everything he knows about cars in sparse clusters of sentences, each with six words or less.

So maybe it isn't a surprise when he drops a pen in front of Michael and slides a folded piece of paper in front of him with nothing but a gruff "Sign here."

Michael picks up the paper, eyes skimming the text. "What's this, old ma--"

He stops short. Looks up at Sanders disbelievingly. "You're. . . " He trails off, words escaping him.

Sanders rolls his eyes. "Who else would I leave this damn place to? Now sign and get back to work." He turns and ambles back to the minivan he was working on.

* * *

It's hard to focus all day because he can feel his copy of the document burning a hole in the back pocket of his jeans. He keeps sneaking it out, unfolding it just to look at it, remind himself that it was _real_. When he's finally done for the day, having stayed long after Sanders had left, he leans against the rickety metal structure that serves as the main autobay, and pulls out the piece of paper again. The metal creaks with his weight, paint flaking down to dust his shoes. He stares at the flakes on his boots thoughtfully.

He heads back to his trailer, grabs a notebook he's been holding onto for over a decade, the cover worn down to almost nothing, water damage curling the pages, the binding frayed and fragile, and heads outside. It's a clear night, stars sparkling overhead, and he could use the clarity to think. He flips it open to the first page, the beginning of a chart he'd made back in high school, where he'd kept track of every cent he'd made pawning stolen copper wire from Sanders. It's all laid out in scratchy ink, filling a couple of pages with prices and dates and notes on what he'd used the money for. Three thousand, four hundred, and seventy-two dollars, stolen and tracked and agonized over for nearly fourteen years. It had been a revelation, that Sanders had _known_ , that Sanders had _cared_ , that maybe someone had wanted the lost little boy he'd been. Sanders doesn't want to be paid back. And Michael isn't even sure that the three thousand-odd dollars would feel like _enough_ after all these years. Sanders had given him a job, a safe place to sleep when he needed it, even the truck that had been his home and lifeline for so long. And now, he's given Michael the autoshop. Granted, it was an upon-Sanders'-death-or-retirement kind of thing, and Michael's pretty sure Sanders is too damn stubborn to do either of those things, but _still_. Sanders Auto, the one physical place in Roswell he could ever even consider something like home, was going to be his one day.

He opens to a fresh page, smooths it out, and starts sketching, scribbling notes in the margin as the thoughts occur to him. He's got $3472 to give the old auto shop a new life.

* * *

There is exactly one hardware store in Roswell. Michael's been a regular since he was a teenager, when old man Sanders had had him fetching parts and running errands for _months_ before letting him get his hands anywhere _near_ an engine. The sign's been replaced in the last few months, missing letters and fading colors replaced with fresh and vibrant vinyl, but little else has, down to the rusted little bell above the door. Michael makes a beeline for the display of paint chips, the one section of the store he almost never frequents, but he's a man on a mission. He finds the section of oil-based paints, suitable for metal and stubborn enough for the New Mexico heat.

As he looks over the shelves of paint, he begins to wish he'd brough Isobel with him. He can handle finding the right type of paint, but the color? He's staring at a wall of options and has no idea what to do.

“Hands off the royal purple, I need five cans of it.”

Michael turns to see Rosa perched atop the paint counter, swinging sneaker-clad feet lightly against the front of it. He also sees a gift from the universe in the form of Liz's sorta-older sorta-younger artist sister. “What color pairs best with ‘autoshop in need of a facelift’?”

“Anything neon.”

“I think Sanders would rather burn the place down than do that.”

“Glad to see it only took you, like, fifty years to decide to give the autoshop a paint job.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Closer to ten than fifty, thank you.”

Rosa shugs. “Whatever. It's looked like _that_ for as long as I can remember. And I think blue.”

He turns to the row of blue cans. There’s still at least ten shades to choose from, ranging from a pale robin’s egg color to an inky indigo. He picks up the first can that catches his eye, a deep cobalt blue. “How’s this?” he asks, turning back to Rosa.

"And the lighter color for the inside."

Michael stacks cans in his cart, then starts stacking the royal purple ones in Rosa's. "So what surface in Roswell is about to get covered in purple?"

Rosa hops down from the counter to grab a couple more cans in different colors. "Dad wants me to paint a mural on the back wall of the Crashdown. I think he's just trying to keep me out of trouble now that I'm out of rehab."

"Well, good luck. And thanks. For the color help."

"No problem. And if you're going all HGTV on the junkyard, there's a sale on plants. Anything with a blue tag in the nursery."

"Plants?"

"Y'know, curb appeal is really important."

* * *

Michael ends up back at Sanders with a dozen cans of paint and primer, all the painting supplies he could possibly need, and a tiny juniper tree in a plastic pot. He stashes the supplies by the airstream and gets started on his work for the day. He gets through three oil changes, a tire rotation, and fixes a couple of coolant leaks before the yard’s empty and the sun is slowly dipping below the horizon.

Painting’s going to take all night, even with his telekinesis, so he’s just waiting for the world to dim enough to hide his alien _Fantasia_ impression.

He can just see glimpses of stars when he starts pulling out supplies, ready to get to work.

* * *

Once he gets into the groove of cleaning and priming and painting it’s peaceful. He loses himself in the repetition, lets the minutes roll into hours until he’s putting the finishing touches on the trim on the outside of the autobay. The early morning sunlight glows gold against the deep blue color as Michael steps back to appraise his work. The paint looks even, transforming the rusty shed into something that looks smooth and new. The inside still needs work, but that can happen another day.

He runs a hand through his curls as he heads back to the airstream for a shower and a few hours of sleep before the workday starts.

* * *

Of course, his lovely sister shows up an hour later, knocking loudly at his door with a bag of pastries and a tray of coffees.

"What do you want, Iz?" He grumpily pulls a pillow over his head as he unlatches the door with his telekinesis.

Isobel breezes in. "Well, I was coming by to see if you could help fix the drive-in projector again, but then I saw that someone seems to be _Queer Eye_ -ing the autoshop. Care to share?"

"This is a conversation that could happen over text. Two hours from now."

"But I brought coffee!"

Michael groans as he gives in and sits up. "Ok, fine, it was me, happy? I'm the one who started the one-alien makeover of Sanders'." He snatches a coffee from Isobel, downing half of it in one go before he realizes that she's talking.

"What?" He blinks up at her as she rolls her eyes.

"I said, why now? What inspired the DIY kick? Because if you're looking for some home improvement projects. . . "

"I figured the place could use it. And well," he stalls out, not exactly sure how to even put into words why he's doing all this. He settles for digging in his jeans pocket, pulling out the folded document, and shoving it into Isobel's hand. "This."

She unfolds it with a raised eyebrow, skimming over the page. "Michael, this says that you're going to own this place one day."

"I know. And that's why I'm fixing it up. Figured I owed the old man that, at least."

Isobel flops down to sit next to him on the bed. "You know, I've had a Pinterest board made for this place for years now."

Michael scoots away from her, defensively. "Oh no, absolutely not."

"Just imagine, some string lights, a few lanterns, maybe a planter box or two?"

"The hell does an autoshop need with string lights?"

"What does an autoshop need with like, a hundred hubcaps on display?"

"Thanks for the coffee, Iz, now I'm sure you're very busy--" He starts to usher her out the door. She grabs her purse and heads back to her car, rolling the windows down as she turns the key in the ignition.

"I'll text you my board! This place has good bones!"

* * *

Sanders doesn't say anything about the new color until the end of the day.

"You do that?" He grunts, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the fresh paint.

Michael straightens from the engine he's trying to repair, a noisy, shaky thing, and glances back at the autobay. He's not sure what he'll do if Sanders doesn't like it, if he thinks Michael has finally overstepped the invisible line he's yet to find, if Michael's done something _wrong_ and this is the straw that breaks the camel's back and Sanders changes his mind about the deed. He nods, once. "Yeah."

"Good. Place could use it." 

Michael just nods again. Sanders graces him with a grunt of approval. "You planning on painting some more tonight?" He waves a hand at the remaining cans of paint, stacked neatly off to the side.

"Why, old man, got opinions about the color?"

"You know damn well I don't."

Michael sighs. "Yeah, I was going to paint the inside. Gotta move everything away from the walls first though."

Sanders grunts again and ambles off to grab a beer from the fridge. "That engine'll keep till morning. These shelves need to be moved."

Michael shuts the hood as quietly as he can. "You don't have to stay. I can--"

"I'm too old to _have_ to do a damn thing."

Michael runs a hand through his hair. If he has to do this the old-fashioned way, with ladders and one roller at a time, it's going to take _days_. "Listen, I just think--"

"Listen, kid, I watched Miss Nora and Miss Louise pull crops from the desert. One minute it was dry and dead and the next the whole field was green and alive again. You think I don't know how you managed to get all that painting done in one day? Now get a move on."

* * *

Sanders falls asleep after two beers, head tilted back against one of the faded plastic lawn chairs. Michael tosses a blanket from the airstream over him, then goes back to painting. 

  
  
  
  



	2. The Atmosphere Here on Mars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Day Two: Alien Powers, "There's something you should know"

Between an unusually busy spell for the autoshop and Michael's wallet feeling a little thin after buying all the paint, Sanders' Auto's makeover montage takes a pause. Michael finds himself sitting out on his makeshift patio most nights, alternating between planning out the renovation and looking up at the stars. He can still spot the same constellations that he'd stared up at as a kid, but somehow, it doesn't feel the same. He used to look up at the stars like he was planning an escape route, noting obstacles and exits and ways _out_. He doesn't see an emergency exit when he looks up anymore. It feels more like. . . _possibility._ He wants to learn more about his people, he really does. Where he came from, why they landed here, what their home planet was like. But home feels like it might be a little closer to the ground. And he's not looking for an exit.

He spots Hercules, traces up past Draco and further to Cygnus. He cranes his head way back, trying to find Cassiopeia when he hears the rumble of an engine driving into the autoshop. It's one of those small, white rental trucks, and Michael's heart rate picks up, because there's no good reason for anyone to come by Sanders' this late at night, and non-descript vehicles can never mean anything good when they've cornered an alien into an empty lot.

He stands up, quickly, every muscle _ready._ The headlights shut off, then the engine, and the driver opens the door.

"Michael!"

Ok, so the truck isn't there to kidnap him, but Isobel paying him a visit this late at night is a whole different kind of _trouble._

* * *

"Where did you even _get_ all this furniture, Iz?"

"I'm redecorating, Michael." She flips her ponytail over one shoulder with a loose hand. "You inspired me."

Michael throws his hands in the air. "What am I even supposed to do with this stuff? I don't need fifteen pillows."

Isobel rolls her eyes. "They're _outdoor_ pillows, Michael. They're waterproof and fade resistant, and they match the rest of the furniture!"

"Where are we even going to put all this furniture? Don't know how to tell you this, Iz, but we need space for the _cars._ "

* * *

The space, as it turns out, is under the metal wire frame that currently displays a few dozen hubcaps. It was the skeleton of an old autobay, left to disuse for the bigger model. Isobel tasks Michael with moving the furniture under it while she meticulously _snaps_ the zipties holding the hubcaps to the metal.

"This is like the alien version of soccer practice," Isobel says, squinting as she concentrates on floating the hubcaps into a neat pile. "We're practicing our motor skills, and _some_ of us are learning team work!"

Michael rolls his eyes, shoving the last couch into place. "How's that? We almost done with our late night little league?"

Isobel grins. "I know you said no string lights, but. . ."

* * *

Michael lounges back against the pillows on one of his new couches, looking up at the lights Isobel's artfully draped over the metal structure. "This looks pretty good."

Isobel flops down to sit next to him. "Told you to give my Pinterest board a chance. I got one more thing for you, though."

He watches as she bounces up and back to the truck, far too much enthusiasm for the late hour.

"It better not be lanterns!" He calls after her.

"Close your eyes and wait!"

He sighs and does as she asks. He hears her heels crunching on the dirt, then feels a weight drop into his lap.

"Open your eyes!"

Michael looks down to see a guitar case, the flimsy fabric faded with age but not showing any other signs of wear. "Iz, I can't--"

"Michael, I found this guitar in my garage. I bought it back in high school and played it _twice_. At least you'll use it."

He sighs, unzipping the case, tracing fingers across the smooth wood with reverence. He pulls his hand back and shifts so he's looking at Isobel. "Thank you."

"It's nothing. Like I said, _twice."_

"It's not nothing. So _thank you."_ It really isn't _nothing._ He'd stolen Alex's guitar in high school, been given Alex's brother's a while later. He'd played Maria's at the Pony, he'd returned the one Alex had tried to give him. This is different. No strings past the six stretched across the fretboard.

Isobel squeezes his shoulder. "We should call Max. He's missing the party. And he needs to stop angsting about Liz. He's been doing his best sad puppy impression for _months."_

* * *

Max drives up half an hour later, his shirt buttoned wrong, his lack of sleep evident in the bags under his eyes and the way he keep scrubbing a hand over his face. Isobel waves enthusiastically as he walks over to them. "Well, what do you think? Michael and I make _quite_ the interstellar home improvement team." She sends Michael some _pointed_ side-eye that he deliberately ignores.

Max looks at their work with an appreciative nod and a low whistle. "Very nice. We redecorating for a reason?"

Michael shifts. "Figured, since I'm going to be sticking around, I should give the place a little love."

Isobel grins at his words, and Max looks between the two of them. "What's up with you two? Something I should know?"

She turns to Michael. "Yes, Max, there is something you should know. Michael's got _news._ "

Max puts his hands on hips, stance shifting just slightly from sleepy brother to former deputy, "Well?"

"This place is going to be mine someday." Michael ruffles the curls at the back of his head. "Sanders made it official a few weeks ago."

Max stares at him for a moment, then wraps him up in a hug. "That's _amazing_ , Michael."

"That's what I said!" Isobel pipes in. "I keep telling him to _let me help_ , but . . ."

Max claps Michael on the back as he pulls away. "I'm really happy for you, man."

"This is a wholesome sibling experience. You know what would make this better?" Isobel steps between her brother to wrap an arm around each of them. "Booze. Michael?"

He waves a hand in the direction of the airstream. "You know where it is."

* * *

Isobel comes back with Michael's nicest bottle of whiskey, three clean glasses. She pours with a heavy hand, then shoves the new guitar into Michael's lap.

"Play something for us?"


	3. Under the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the saying goes, it's Day 3 of Michael Guerin week _somewhere_.
> 
> Day Three: Distance/Separation (or, y'know, lack thereof), "I don't want you to go"

"Isobel was right, you really are cleaning this place up!"

Michael ducks out from under the hood of a 2002 F-150 that's seen better days to see Maria DeLuca leaning out her window, waving.

"DeLuca!" He calls back, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he walks over to the car. "What can I do for you?"

She tilts her head at him, the evening sunshine bouncing golden off her curls. "I know it's been a while since I came by, but you're still the only mechanic I trust, Michael."

He grins and opens the car door for her with a flourish. "Happy to hear it."

* * *

"I'm not sure you have the wall space left for this." Michael lifts the broken sign up from Maria's truck bed.

"I'm spring cleaning," she explains, walking to Michael's workshop table and hopping up to perch herself on the edge of it. "But I found this at an estate sale out in Santa Fe. The wiring's a lost cause, but they stuck a tube light in it at the sale to show off the design, and I _needed_ it."

"Looks like a blue square to me."

"It's definitely indigo. Get it working, and I think you'll like it, too."

Michael turns the sign over and pops out the back, gently inspecting the wiring. "Doesn't look too bad. I've got some time right now, give me a couple of hours?"

Maria hops off the table and presses a kiss to his cheek. "I'll see you then."

* * *

The sun's sunk below the horizon by the time her truck rolls into the lot again. There's something angular in the truck bed, but Maria steps out of the cab waving a bottle of whiskey before he can identify whatever it is. "This one's on me, Guerin."

Alex steps out of the passenger side before he can respond. "The shelves are from both of us, though."

Michael looks confused. "Shelves?" He shakes his head. "Wanna see the sign first?"

"Light it up!" Maria snags Alex by one arm and Michael by the other, pulling them toward the workshop table.

Michael huffs a laugh and disengages himself from her to prop up the sign with one hand and plug it in with the other. The _indigo_ square lights up with bright stars, dotted lines marking constellations. The sort of stories you have to look _up_ to tell.

"Oh, Maria, this is _beautiful._ " Alex traces a finger along Pisces, reverently.

Michael leans a hip against the table. "You might want to watch out with all the star stuff. Heard there's aliens round these parts."

Maria reaches over to tug on one of his curls playfully. "I think I got it handled. You got any glasses for the whiskey?"

He clutches his chest dramatically. "I thought that was for me!"

Alex crosses his arms. "We brought _shelves._ You can share."

Michael sighs, flapping a hand at the airstream. "You know where they are."

* * *

By the time Alex returns with the glasses, Maria's directing Michael to float the new shelves over to the autobay. Michael's complaining, loudly, about Maria moving everything off the old shelves. "You two playing nice?"

Michael points at Maria threateningly. "If you break anything. . . "

Alex rolls his eyes and pours a generous measure into each glass. "We can be done a couple of hours if we _cooperate."_

"You guys don't have to help." Michael starts, picking up his glass. "I appreciate the shelves, but I can get everything--"

"Not a chance, Guerin. To the new Sanders' Auto!"

Alex raises his glass, too. "To _home_ improvement."

Michael knocks his glass against both of theirs. "Thanks."

* * *

The first hour is mostly productive, the second is a little more giggly as the buzz sets in, and they finally finish halfway through the third, stumbling over to Michael's patio area to flop against the plush pillows.

"You know, Michael," Alex starts, his words floating up into the night air. "I'm really happy for you. This," he waves a hand around vaguely, "is amazing."

"I second that," Maria leans into his other side. "You seem really happy."

Michael ducks his head. "I just figured I owed it to the old man, you know? After everything he's done for me. . ." He trails off and shrugs.

"You're making the place your _home._ Laying roots, you know?"

"I guess so." He takes a sip of his drink. "Supposed I'd be around for a while. Can't exactly leave anytime soon."

"That's good." Alex says, staring into his glass. "I, uh." He trails off, clears his throat. "I don't want you to go. You deserve a place to call home, but I'm glad it's _here_."

Maria wraps an arm around him. " _We_ don't want you to go. We've gotten attached."

Michael traces a finger around his glass. "Thanks."

Alex leans back into the couch, taking the lull to change the subject. "So, a little birdie tells me you've been playing guitar some more. And I saw the bag in your airstream."

Michael glances sideways at him. "Was this _birdie_ tall and blonde? Iz has been helping me fix up the place. She gave me her old guitar, so I've been messing around."

Maria snatches the glass from his hand, taking a sip. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go get it. You've got an audience here."

He rolls his eyes as he stands up. " _Fine._ Don't expect me to play at the open mic anytime soon. _"_

"I'll get you on my stage one day, Michael."

Maria turns to Alex with a raised eyebrow as Michael walks away. "Your stage, Alex?"

"I've been running the open mic since Forrest left! Can you blame me for getting attached to the place?"

Maria inclines her head. "You've been doing a good job. Maybe giving Bert a little too much stage time, though."

"Bert's got a _fanclub."_

_______

Michael comes back with his guitar in hand, squishing himself between Alex and Maria on the couch. He switches from song to song as the impulse takes him, enjoying the quiet of the night, gentle peace washing over the lot.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on tumblr!](https://bean-me-up.tumblr.com/)


End file.
